Confessions

Why,
dear mother of God,
do I hate your sarcophagus
of a church?
Why does it make me so sad,
so afraid?
It is because we know
and don’t know our destiny.
I do not come here afraid of death.
I leave that way!
I see my blood
spilled on the stained glass.
I see my humanity rejected.

I pray nightly to you,
and sometimes in the day,
outside,
in my bed.
I sense you with me
picking a dandelion,
and I am confused
why people put you in those awful buildings.
Sing chants,
and repeat themselves
in some awful propitiation
for simply being
tired, sick, stupid, joyful,
wanting only to be young,
to go on picnics,
have sex,
to be relieved of their terrors,
and mend their broken hearts,
without being blamed,
pissed on,
condemned,
unloved for being old or sick,
or ugly,
or having a screw loose somewhere.

I know the truth of my life.
I need not explain it.
Dwell on its impermanence,
watching forever approach,
and have everything taken away.
I love them,
and feel you inside me,
sharing something beyond my kin.
How to talk,
how to pray,
how to endure,
and how to love
in the face of my catastrophe.